


Stagnation

by CeNedraRiva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Asexuality, Blood Prejudice, Demiromantic Tom Riddle, F/M, Freedom Fighters, Gen, M/M, Morally Grey Tom Riddle, POV Tom Riddle, Politician Harry Potter, Rebellion, Smart Harry Potter, blood purists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-29 22:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12095040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeNedraRiva/pseuds/CeNedraRiva
Summary: In a world where Lord Voldemort never existed, and anti-Muggle-born sentiment grows steadily worse, a disillusioned Tom Riddle tries to undermine blood purity culture wherever the whimsy takes him. After all, intelligence and ability were far more important than lineage. Why should blood matter when you could use magic?Tom only wished he could find someone clever enough to keep things interesting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2017 Tomarry Big Bang, with [art by hanners97](https://hannars97.tumblr.com/post/165251020991/entry-tomarrybigbang-for-cenedrariva-first-time)

He had always known he was different.

The other children, the ones who picked on him, the ones who ignored him, were all of them idiots. He knew he was different because he could think.

He didn’t just blindly believe what the matrons told them, or the sermons of preachers at the cathedral they went to every Sunday. He could see them for what they were. Greedy men, drunken women, vacuous children. The scraps of the world.

He was better than that. He wasn’t reliant on their little mercies. He could make things happen. He could, and had scared the ones who attacked him, hurt them even. They all feared him now.

And that was fine. Because he would escape this place one day. He would find someone as clever as he was, someone who could be his equal, or at the very least, his ally. Someone worthwhile. Someone he’d never need to scare. A friend.

* * *

 

Tom sat on the stool at the front of the Great Hall, trying to hide his anxiety as he looked across the assembled students. The excited Gryffindors, the polite Ravenclaws, the supportive Hufflepuffs, the completely disinterested Slytherins.

Professor Dumbledore placed the hat on his head, and he couldn’t see a thing.

_ Interesting. _

Tom gave a start, before steadying himself, staring into the darkness. He wouldn’t show weakness here at the front of the hall, not where everyone could see.

_ Oh, don’t mind me. I’m only Sorting you, nothing to worry about. _

The hat was speaking?

He heard a chuckle.

_ Yes, I can speak. Don’t worry, I won’t be long. You’re not my first difficult case. _

Difficult case? He remembered some of the matrons at the orphanage referring to him that way: as a difficult case, something that needed work to be worthwhile, like he wasn’t a proper person.

Tom realised he was gritting his teeth.

_ I assure you, dear Tom, I meant that in no way to be offensive. Simply put, some children have a definite affinity for one House or another, while others could quite easily go to any House. You are of the second kind. _

He sighed, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t let himself get so flustered about a memory, or being shocked by an old hat. Determined, he focused solely on the current moment. Which House would he end up in?

_ Exactly my point. You have within you the qualities to do well in any of the Houses. I need to work out which will help you flourish. _

Really? Any of the Houses?

_ Yes. You have courage and pride, and value hard work. You love learning, and have both a goal and a plan to reach it. All such positive qualities, I really must applaud you. _

Tom squirmed a little, unnerved. He really just wanted to be sorted and join his house. How long had he been up here so far? Thirty seconds? Fifteen minutes? It was hard to tell.

_ Alright, yes, that definitely helped. Two options now… _

Which Houses had the hat just decided against?

_ Better be… _ SLYTHERIN!

The last word was called out loud as the hat was whipped off his head, and he looked out once more at the sea of faces. Most now showing surprise, or, in a few cases, disgust. Tom smiled tentatively, before darting over to the Slytherin table, wincing when he realised it was the location of most of the disgusted expressions. Looking back, he saw Professor Dumbledore staring at him with the same sharp interest he had worn when Tom had mentioned he could speak to snakes.

Tom chose to ignore Dumbledore, and turned to the boy sat at the table besides him, a blonde first year he remembered was called Malfoy.

“Hi,” he said quietly, holding out a hand. “I’m Tom.”

The boy only raised an eyebrow, before pointedly ignoring him.

Stung, Tom watched the rest of the sorting in silence.

* * *

 

Slytherin was not a good place for a Muggle-born. That was what he was. Where he fell on the spectrum of wizardry.

Not unique. Not better. The worst of three classes, in fact.

As if blood mattered when you could use magic.

Tom huffed to himself, hidden in a corner of the Library. Slytherin was not a good place for him. Home of the ambitious, the cunning, the devious. Home to those who applied their skills to further their goals, whether by intelligence, power or clinging to shirt-tails. In reality, this seemed to mean home of the rich, the pure-blooded, and bigoted. The spoilt.

In short, no one worth associating with, even if he wanted to. They were as bad as the Muggles, all corrupt and needlessly cruel.

Tom gave a sniff as he studied the text for the countercharm. It wasn’t a particularly bad hex, just causing words in black ink to scroll across his face. Some words he didn’t understand, but knew were meant to be insulting. Humiliating. Like  _ Mudblood filth _ . And  _ worthless bastard _ . Honestly, it was no worse than being called demonic by the Muggles. And only the Slytherins in the common room saw it all.

He couldn’t scare them like the Muggle orphans though. They all knew magic; they weren’t scared of it. He could steal their precious things, but they were all so rich they’d just ask their parents for new copies. Besides, Dumbledore was still staring at him funny. Like he was dangerous. Even if Tom did manage to steal from or scare one of his housemates, Dumbledore would make him apologise and give it back. It would completely undermine the threat he was making.

Glancing at the stack of books he’d collected, he considered learning to curse back. To fight them, frighten them.

Tom’s shoulders slumped. It wouldn’t be enough. There were too many against him to fight. He was only one kid against a House, a House that was known to band together to protect from threats. Or to pick at a victim. And they all knew so much magic already. Half of his free time was spent trying to catch up on theory so the lessons would make sense. Which meant that he wasn’t even the best at the stuff they were meant to know, let alone the extra bits like cursing.

No, much better to learn how to evade capture. To avoid notice. To mitigate risk. He was certain he would not be caught unawares again.

* * *

 

Tom waited until the last of the students left, slowly packing his potions kit. It was the last lesson of the day; so it should be the best moment to get his head of house alone.

“Professor Slughorn?”

The man looked startled, before he began chuckling.

“Oh, Tom, my dear boy! I didn’t see you there! Did you want to speak with me?”

Tom nodded, trying to keep his face blank, and stepped forward. Professor Slughorn had only started calling him Tom and chuckling like that in the last few weeks, after their Halloween tests. Before that, he had nearly ignored him, even when he turned up late, or visibly hexed. Tom thought it was rather obvious the man was only being nice to him because of his high marks.

“Yes, sir. I was wondering if you could help tutor me.” He managed to keep the frustration at needing to ask out of his voice.

The Professor looked surprised.

“Not in potions, surely! I haven’t seen anyone pick up the basics so quickly in years! And your other teachers have assured me you have no trouble in their classes.” The man looked puzzled for a moment, before he began to grin slyly. “Unless you’re trying to get ahead of the others. Now, Tom, I know this material is a bit basic, and that can be frustrating for someone as bright as you. If it was my choice, I’d be teaching you second year material already! But I’m afraid we need to wait until you have a better grasp of the basics. Struggle through, Tom!”

Tom blinked, somewhat taken aback at how cheery the man was, and more than a little offended that Slughorn believed he was still working on the basics. They had been learning for nearly three months, after all, and he had more than caught up with his peers as far as understanding magical theory. The fears he’d had during his first few weeks, that his initial ignorance of magic would handicap his education, had proven to be entirely unfounded. Tom had begun reading the second year textbooks out of sheer boredom.

“Um, that wasn’t exactly what I meant, Professor. I can find my way through the curriculum easily enough.”

“No? Then what do you mean, my boy?”

Mentally, Tom worked his way up to saying it. Asking for such a mundane thing. He was tempted just to dismiss the whole issue and leave, but unfortunately it was necessary.

“It’s my accent, Professor. It sounds so Muggle.”

Slughorn’s eyes sharpened in that moment, fixed on him like a niffler that had caught a glimpse of something shiny.

“Your voice, you say? Now that you mention it, I did notice you sounded a bit… common… for someone so bright.”

“Unfortunately the orphanage wasn’t able to hire instructors in etiquette and enunciation.”

“An absolute outrage, in this day and age! What were they spending money on instead?”

Tom grimaced a bit in response. The man clearly had no idea how poverty-stricken London was. They hadn’t always been able to afford food.

“I know, sir. A travesty.”

“And you, Tom, with such a large vocabulary despite improper tutelage! Such a bright young boy.”

“Thank you, sir. I did try.”

Slughorn still looked rather scrutinising despite his jovial tone. Tom steeled himself against squirming. In times like this, it was obvious why the man was Head of Slytherin. After a short silence, the man began to smile again, regaining his previous air.

“Very well, Tom. I think it is a marvellous pursuit, bettering oneself. And may I say well done on noticing the importance of good vocalisation! Not many Muggle-borns pick up on that; it holds so many of them back. I’m just not sure if I have the time.”

“Any time you can spare, sir, would be of use to me. I am a diligent student.”

“All true! Still, maybe Albus could assist you, or one of the older students.”

“Anyone but you would be a reduction in quality.”

Slughorn laughed, shaking his head.

“You do know how to flatter an old potions Master, my boy! I accept. Why don’t you stop by, say, tomorrow evening before dinner?”

“I will be sure to do just that, sir, thank you. I greatly appreciate this investment you’re making.”

“Ah, wise boy! Off with you, now! I’m sure we’ll be seeing great things from you, Tom Riddle.”

Tom nodded, quickly taking his leave. It was a good thing the Professor was so willing to make an  _ investment _ . He certainly had nothing to offer yet, not fame, or money, or influence like his yearmates.

He held in a sigh and headed to the library again. His notice-me-not charm still wasn’t strong enough to deflect focused interest, unlike the ones cast by his yearmates whenever they wanted to go Mudblood Hunting, though the silencing charm for his boots had proven effective. Was there a spell for sharper hearing or eavesdropping, too?

* * *

 

Even with the upcoming OWLS examinations, Tom still had plenty of time for his own research. Revision wasn’t exactly taxing, particularly not since he’d taught himself the OWLS exam material when he was thirteen.

His latest area of interest was the mythology surrounding the founders of Hogwarts: in particular, Slytherin and his mysterious Chamber of Secrets. 

Tom had, of course, long since figured out that the monster had to be something that spoke parseltongue. In fact, he was surprised that none of the books he had read mentioned anything of the sort. It was logical. Surely he was not the first to actually research the Chamber in the thousand years since its creation?

But no, nowhere he looked could he find anything more than a repetition of the basic legend, as if no one had ever thought past that. Of course, this was the Hogwarts library he was searching. Doubtless, previous headmasters had censored even the restricted section. There was so little advanced magic there.

Luckily there were only a few creatures that could speak parseltongue as well as live over a thousand years. Though, of course, that was assuming the creature still lived. Very few creatures fit the criteria, in fact, and none particularly safe. One was the Indian Naga, a half snake, half human creature which could even use forms of magic based entirely on parseltongue. They lived for centuries, and were able to enter a kind of hibernation lasting decades which turned their bodies to stone. However, they were creatures of intelligence, on par with the European centaurs, and just as proud. A Naga was unlikely to serve a wizard, especially not agreeing to guard a chamber deep underground for centuries.

Another possibility was a dragon from the East. It was well known that Slytherin had travelled during the years of discord with the other founders. Eastern dragons still shared enough of their heritage with snakes to be able to speak parseltongue, a gift much more common among wizards there. And they were generally more intelligent than their European cousins. But a dragon just didn’t seem like a creature Slytherin would favour. And they needed to eat a great deal to survive. One would have been spotted hunting around Hogwarts long before now.

The creature Tom felt it was most likely to be was a basilisk. Near immortal, with deadly venom, and with a gaze that could both petrify and kill; it was perfect. The only weakness of the giant serpent was roosters, surprisingly, and other basilisks. He was nearly certain he was right in his conclusion.

The only question now was the location of the Chamber’s entrance.

Staring unseeingly at the textbook in front of him, Tom thought.

Was he even certain he wanted to find the Chamber? He was fairly certain that Slytherin was his ancestor, even if no one else would believe him. Though there were no conclusive records detailing Slytherin’s descendants, there were a few dozen supposed Parselmouths recorded within Britain over the last millennium. The most recent was Mercurius Gaunte, a staunch blood purist and misanthrope, who’d disappeared 300 years earlier after some unspecified humiliation. 

Tom did acknowledge the possibility that his own Parseltongue ability may have been inherited from a foreign wizard rather than Mercurius Gaunte or the Slytherin line. Either way, the fact that he did possess the ability was proof enough that he was not a Muggle-born. 

He had no need to prove his lineage to his fellow classmates. They had long since let him be. The most competent wizard in their year also being a Mudblood was enough to set their simple minds a-tizzy. Easier to ignore him entirely, especially when he mysteriously knew so many of their secrets. And continue Slytherin’s noble work? The murder of Mudbloods? Until a few months before, he had been one of them. And what if the basilisk disobeyed him, was too hungry after waking to wait for food and attacked? He couldn’t fight off a basilisk, rooster or not.

Besides, if students were killed there would be an investigation. They might even close down the school, and he would  _ not _ go back to that orphanage for any longer than he had to. Especially not now with the Muggle war and all those air raids. He would not die in that disgraceful place, not after carving himself a place among the blood purists.

He really did want to see the Chamber though. As Slytherin’s heir, he was even expected to.

A shame. It really didn’t seem worth it now, to risk closing the school and his own death simply to see if he was right about Slytherin’s monster.

Closing the books, he slid them back into his bag and stood. Dinner would be served soon. Abraxas would certainly comment on his absence.

* * *

 

Tom graduated with honours, of course, and the highest marks in every subject at Hogwarts; excepting Muggle Studies, which he refused to take on principle. The last student to earn a pass in eleven NEWTs had attended more than thirty years beforehand, and he’d gone on to be Head Auror. Tom’s eleven Outstandings could only mean he was heading for the position of Minister. It was a cause for celebration, according to Slughorn, for socialising and giving his Slug Club one last hurrah. There had been past members and influential guests in attendance, of course, people in every field from politics to sports to dragon-handling.

It was Tom’s fault, really. Years spent in the same small community at Hogwarts, of using secrets as leverage and intelligence as a weapon had dulled his memories. Those few weeks in first year, before he’d caught up and surpassed the rest, when he was  _ weak _ , were nothing but a distant scar. He’d forgotten how disgracefully wizards viewed Muggle-borns. He could hear the whispers from across the room, even as he made small talk with the Secretary for Creature Welfare. Right now, he was the top of the class, the leader of Slytherin House, but out there in the real world he’d learn his place. Even Slughorn’s expression held a flicker of pity whenever he gazed at Tom.

Not one of these fools actually expected him to ever amount to anything! Tom was astounded. They though perhaps he’d stop as the personal assistant to the Minister, possibly, in a decade if he tried hard enough. It was infuriating!

Headmaster Dippet certainly hadn’t been expecting him to apply for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. Too inexperienced? Tom had published articles on the subject! Admittedly, under a pseudonym, but it was clear to anyone who met him how great his understanding was. Too young? The younger students were already in a state of awe and fear over his ability and influence; even the Gryffindors knew not to provoke Tom Riddle! All this, without revealing his Slytherin heritage!

So what if they didn’t want him? Tom would make them need him, and laugh as they fought back their abhorrence to gain his assistance.

* * *

 

The Slytherin graduates had been surprised when Tom got a job at Borgin and Burkes. Malfoy had whined that it was below his status, and Black had laughed, nodding and waiting for him to reveal his actual job. Rosier had been quiet, but it was obvious that he thought following Tom had been a mistake. Tom ignored them, and all the others. If none of them could see the value of working in a semi-legal dark arts pawn shop, he wasn’t going to explain it to them.

It was a hobby, really. So many interesting artefacts came through the shop. Cursed objects and unique tomes and priceless heirlooms. All magical houses were full of them, both old and new, but almost no one seemed to marvel at the complexity and forethought that went into the little devices. So many people overlooked then, dismissing them as easily as Muggles dismissed light bulbs.

Whenever he had free time, and working at Borgins and Burkes, that was fairly frequently, Tom chose to deconstruct and examine whatever enchanted object he could get his hands on. It was fascinating, taking things apart and working out how to reconstruct them and how to make them better. It wasn’t long before he was making his first attempts at crafting items of his own design, drawing on all his knowledge of charms, runes and arithmancy.

Tom didn’t want for money, luckily, despite working as a shop clerk. It was a dichotomy that certainly increased the mystery of his person, he knew. Evidently, his rather affluent yearmates had never noticed how few of their—ultimately rather useless—gifts he actually kept. Tom had used capital he’d collected over his Hogwarts years to make a few well-chosen investments across the stock market, and quickly found himself in rather good standing with the goblins at Gringotts. They could certainly appreciate the sharp increase in his finances, and the sharp mind behind it. 

It was interesting how any wizard could disregard the goblins when they controlled most of the economy of the wizarding world. It said a lot about how short-sighted they were as a population, an aspect Tom was happy to exploit. 

His returns were enough that he could always afford the right sort of robes for whatever event he attended, as well as the ability to frequent the right sort of establishments for lunches and dinners. In the end, embracing the aesthetics of a pure-blood was enough to gain acceptance among their ranks.

Or at least it was if you also held the secrets of some of their more embarrassing discretions.

Of course, Tom still traded in secrets. Favours, too, when he felt like it. He often felt like it. The activity provided him with a vibrant sense of satisfaction, particularly if he could use the opportunity to push at the delicate sensibilities of his chosen playing field. The strain in their eyes was rather delightful.

Admittedly, his contact pool was still rather shallow, consisting mostly of his fellow graduates, their families, and a few others. Wizarding Britain was a rather small, tight-knit community, but it wasn’t as self-contained as Hogwarts. Some of the other figures out there had been dancing across the complex political world for decades, and it wouldn’t do to underestimate his opponents.

One of the most prominent was Dumbledore, something Tom was already finding rather frustrating. The age of the Dumbledore family name—in addition to Dumbledore’s own achievements regarding dragon blood—afforded him a great deal of political clout, as well as a very high standing among the magical community; his influence had only increased after his defeat of Grindelwald. His supporters appeared supremely confident that he would do best as far as defending their interests, and even those who disliked him had to acknowledge his power.

Tom found it rather aggravating, especially considering the man’s well-hidden prejudice against Slytherins. Not once during his schooling had Dumbledore dropped his caution in regards to Tom. In fact there were many occasions where he seemed convinced Tom was guilty of something or other, and devoted to subtly investigating him. He hadn’t failed to notice how closely Dumbledore’s prefects had watched him.

It would have been annoying even if he had done something to earn such close scrutiny. As it was, he hadn’t done anything beyond defend himself in the time-honoured tradition of Slytherins: with sharp words, pointed insinuation, and subtle spellwork. No one had been permanently harmed, and he had earned a position of respect among his peers. Tom was unsure what had attracted Dumbledore’s ire, but apparently the lack of evidence as to his apparent wrongdoing was even more damning.

It was no matter now. Tom had survived, and he no longer had to deal with the ridiculous man, except on the rare occasions that their interests intersected obliquely through political play.

As it was, he currently had three invitations to tea over the next couple of days. It sounded like an excellent opportunity to practice his charm.

* * *

 

Once, Tom tried sending in some research under his own name, just to see what would happen.

Nothing, apparently. The editor never saw his work, as it was discarded, thought to be the simple musings of a Mudblood despite his outstanding academic reputation. Tom didn’t try again, although he did ensure that the editor in question was punished. The Daily Prophet ran a two-page spread on his illicit dealings.

* * *

 

After nearly a decade in the  _ real world _ , Tom was getting rather sick of it.

It was boring.

Teas, luncheons, galas, and dinners, all of it was so tedious. Sure, watching the socio-political dance was rather interesting, but did they have to make it so obvious? And why did so much if it have to come back to sex, or monetary bribes? People were predictable, base, and petty.

His boredom did nothing to impact his skill at the game. Quite the contrary, actually. Tom remained very well known among the community as an intelligent, powerful ally to keep, with a network of influence that spanned deep into the shadows. He held the secrets – leverage – of nearly everyone of importance, leaving him as one of the most influential figures in current politics. It was his influence that had positioned the next candidate for Minister, and his influence that had pushed through that last policy protecting the rights of Muggle-borns in the workplace.

Dumbledore had been very surprised to see him endorse that one, and again he had to wonder what exactly Dumbledore thought he was guilty of. As if the laws on Muggle-born rights didn’t directly impact the quality of his life.

Despite everything, he still worked at Borgin and Burkes. It was now one of his quirks, part of his charming persona. Tom Riddle, the modest genius, who spent his days working in a shop. Tom Riddle, who was always inexplicably wealthy and wearing the latest fashions to every event. Tom Riddle, who could find you anything, no matter how rare or illegal, for the right price. Working at the shop, he had collected dozens of rare artefacts over the years, decoding and re-enchanting them just to see how they ticked. He wrote up his findings and speculations, and had published enough to make a small compendium of his works. Seeing his research published was intensely satisfying, even if it was still under a pseudonym.

In between the glamourous social events and the tedium of his everyday life, Tom found himself revisiting his old childhood longings, dreams and musings he had slowly begun to abandon at some point. The need to find his place in the world, somewhere above the banality of it all. The pursuit of knowledge, and the thousand ways to apply it to improve the lives of everyone around. That mirage of an idealised society, one where magic in all its forms was celebrated, regardless of blood type or species. There was so much wonder in their world, why in Merlin’s name did they allow it to be corrupted by human pettiness? It made him feel sick.

What he longed for, even above all of that, was a companion. A rival. An opponent. Someone he could match wits with, again and again, and attempt to shape the world with. Surely someone other than bloody Dumbledore had noticed how corrupt their world had become, and was intelligent enough to do something about it? Why was everyone else content with how things were? Why had he never met anyone actually interesting or worthwhile befriending?

Why was he still so needy? Why was this childish longing so difficult to quell? It wasn’t like being alone all this time had significantly hindered him. He had one of the most powerful political networks of anyone currently active, and he frequented all manner of social events. It wasn’t like he was suffering for lack of human contact. Most of the time, he found that interacting with others made his skin crawl.

Despite the illogic of it all, he longed for companionship. And why should he not get what he wanted?

Tom brushed the thoughts away. Ruminating on them would do no good, especially when he had tasks to complete and plans to enact.

Apparently, the position of Defence against the Dark Arts Professor was about to become available again. What a wonderful opportunity to influence the future of his world.

* * *

 

“I’m afraid we will not be taking your application any further, Mr Riddle.”

Tom stared at Dumbledore’s smug little grin. Out of sight, his hands formed two fists.

“Thank you, sir. May I ask why I was declined?”

“Of course. While you do have some experience here, you appear to have no experience whatsoever practicing Defence other than some limited curse-breaking as a shop assistant, and you have no experience whatsoever dealing with children or teaching.”

“Sir, I am not completely without experience teaching children.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I spent several hours each week tutoring many of the younger Slytherins in a range of subjects.”

“Hmm,” Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “I am afraid informal tutoring is not quite the same as possessing the skill to create a structured curriculum and varied lesson plans, or to adapt to the individual needs of your students. It is a difficult balance to maintain.”

“I am quite capable of planning for and balancing many different aspects of teaching, and adapting quickly to changing circumstances.” Far better than many of the teachers he knew were still working here. Honestly, the hiring criteria for the teaching staff under Headmaster Dippet’s reign must have been abysmal.

“While I could never deny your academic ability, Tom, there is the fact that it has been over ten years since you last regularly interacted with children.”

“Perhaps you would allow a short trial period, and I could demonstrate—”

“I am afraid you’re simply not a good fit here, Tom,” Dumbledore cut in.

“And Josaphine Chapel is?”

His throat felt too full. Chapel was well-known as a misandrist and for her strict tutelage. Rumour was she hated children, as well as anyone under thirty, and she loathed ignorance. The few her students he’d met had described her as an absolute tyrant, bad enough that he knew she was close to unemployable. While he may lack a little as far as teaching experience, Tom had never failed to take command of a room since long before Hogwarts, and they both knew his Defence charms were exemplary. This was completely unfair.

Dumbledore lost his smile.

“Now, Tom, you know I cannot divulge any information regarding our other applicants.”

“Applicant. Singular.”

“Applicant,” Dumbledore agreed. “I think we have completed our business here today.”

* * *

 

Tom was wandering the familiar corridors in a daze.

It wasn’t enough.

He could plot and research and practice all he liked, it wasn’t going to make a difference. The pure-bloods would never see him as more than his Mudblood status, would never consider him as anything more than an arrogant proletarian with delusions of aristocracy. A fake name with no prior credentials was worth more than his academic excellence. And now Dumbledore, supposed champion of all Muggle-borns, couldn’t look past his own prejudice for long enough to even offer Tom a trial period and see how he dealt with children.

Tom swallowed hard.

Somehow, his feet had carried him to the Hogwarts Library. He blinked, eyes trailing across the shelving, somewhat alarmed to notice the large gaps among the texts. Striding through the aisles, he found books seemed to be missing across the entire collection. The empty places on the shelves glared out at him.

How much knowledge had been removed? Hidden? Perhaps even destroyed? Was Dumbledore responsible for the censorship, or was it the Ministry? Did it matter? Either way, the same people were going to suffer. Muggle-borns, without free access to the magical secrets and traditions passed down among families.

Tom spun on one heel, quickly striding from the room and making his way back to the castle entrance. He felt nauseated, trapped within the harsh stone walls that had once represented such freedom, the boundaries of his domain.

The late evening sun bathed the moors and hills in deep gold, and Tom felt his breathing begin to settle into a normal pattern again. He grimaced. What an embarrassing lack of control.

Wandering across the grounds, Tom found himself heading towards the Great Lake. Shore gravel was crunching beneath his feet when he finally halted, folding down to settle at the edge of the water.

Beneath the shimmering surface, the waters were deep and black. Vicious mer-creatures lived out their entire lives within those lacustrine confines, generally unconcerned with the affairs of humans – either Muggle or magical – except if they had the opportunity to drown an unsuspecting victim. What a peaceful existence.

Merlin, what was he doing, musing on the lives of grindylows and selkies? He had things to do, teatimes to attend, policies to manipulate, even that shop needed him, Borgin was hardly a competent shopkeeper—

And what was the point of any of it, if he couldn’t use his abilities to his advantage if he needed to?

He needed a holiday. 


	2. Chapter 2

They tried to stay in contact, at first. A whole flurry of owls found him while he was staying in the French Pyrenees, demanding to know where he was. Why he’d stood up so many events. When he’d be coming back.

He didn’t bother to answer. Didn’t even open most of them.

After six months, the letters stopped coming. It was a relief, if anything.

* * *

He never really stayed in one place for long, moving on before the locals became too familiar.

Tom enjoyed the scenery, all of it so different from the grime-filled streets of London, or the scraggly moorlands that surrounded Hogwarts. The sharp peaks of the mountains cutting against the sky. The vast, arid plains dotted with tiny villages. The vibrant waters of the Mediterranean lapping gently at the shores.  

There was a different sort of magic to be found in these quiet places, a peaceful solitude away from the petty squabbles of his home.  

He drifted, fascinated by the way ancient architecture was interwoven with bright, new Muggle buildings. Glass and steel alongside granite facades and cobbled streets. Muggle technology was certainly advancing fast. Apparently, Muggles had even managed to send a man to the Moon! It was rather astounding, and only threw into harsh contrast how unchanging the wizarding world was.

Food was interesting. Different. Tom had never really considered it, how plain British food really was. At the orphanage, it had merely been a tasteless fuel that wasn't always available. At Hogwarts, there had always been enough to eat, but eating itself had merely been a necessity, a distraction, if anything.

Here, though. Seriously, had the British never heard of seasoning? He'd had no idea food could be so good, so flavourful! It didn't even seem to matter if he was in Zaragoza or Opole or Tirana, still the food was superior to British cuisine. He was nearly indignant that he had been kept ignorant of this for so long!  

Although, no sweet or candy or pastry could compare to Honeydukes’ chocolate. He did miss good chocolate.

Generally, Tom tried to avoid the magical population of whatever country he found himself in. It was easier to stay undetected among the Muggles, where a simple befuddlement charm could get him lodgings for days, free of charge. Which wasn't to say he didn't explore the local wizarding communities, and the variations within their magic. Charming himself to appear completely unremarkable, he wandered their streets and picked up what spells he could.  

The books were relatively useless, of course. Translation charms were not sophisticated enough to correctly transcribe their contents, and while Tom could speak in Latin rather fluently, he'd never actually learned French. Or Italian. Or Spanish. Or Portuguese. He could get his meaning across well enough when he was actually speaking, but learning foreign magic from books required a better understanding of linguistics than he was willing to attain. At least for now. Maybe in ten years, after travelling was less interesting.  

Still, it was fascinating, exploring the differences in magical languages. British magic utilised bastardised hybridisations of Latin, French and Greek. Italian magic also used Latin as a base, but the same root word could be used as a completely different spell in Italian when compared to French or English! But a spell formed from a West Germanic base could produce an identical spell!

Obviously, there was something else going on. If spells designed from the same root word could turn out so differently, but spells from different root words could produce identical effects, then it seemed to indicate that the words themselves were not inherently magical. They couldn't be, or magic would be a lot more consistent from culture to culture.  

So, what could this mean? That magical effects are disconnected from the words used to trigger them? That the links between certain spell words and their effects was entirely based on the expectation and belief of the caster?  

Magic didn't need spells to work. The spell only worked to guide the caster's mind and allow them to visualise the desired effect. Any language would work, or even using non-verbal languages or gestures.  

But where did it stop? If words were merely guides to channel magic – useful, but ultimately unnecessary – then what about wands? Were wands necessary for casting magic, or were they just channels, too? It seemed pretty likely. After all, accidental magic was performed without a wand, guided by nothing but the emotions of the castor.

Tom became certain of his theory the further he travelled from Britain. Outside of Europe, wands were not anywhere as commonplace, and it didn't take much research to discover than in many places, magic had always traditionally been performed wandless.  

So, all that magic required was desire, and discipline of the mind. Which meant that Tom would be able to perform any spell – every spell – he encountered, as long as he understood what the spell was intended to do.  

So many possibilities.

* * *

It was as he was wandering the temples of Indonesia that he realised it had been more than a decade since he had last been in Britain.

Curious, he began to make his way back, collecting what little information he could from this side of the globe.

Thirteen years, two months and nine days after he’d last been there, Tom stepped foot on British soil once more.  

* * *

Not much had changed, really. Wizarding Britain was still hopelessly corrupt; a fact that he could once again use to his advantage, since apparently time and Dumbledore alone had not been enough for the laws limiting Muggle-born rights to be abolished.

Technically, as a “Muggle-born”, he was not allowed to own properties. If he had enough capital, he could start his own business, but being Muggle-born would disadvantage him there, too; mainly in the form of exorbitant taxes. He could probably work out a way to avoid it, but any over-eager auror with a grudge could cause him a lot of trouble, especially if one of the pure-bloods Tom was extorting decided to sponsor them. Besides, after spending so long out of any contact, he was basically starting from scratch once more to establish himself.

Even if he managed to navigate all that, he would still have to deal with the fact that no family of any substance would use his shop, no matter how unique and useful his products. While it was perfectly alright to invite a Muggle-born to social events – especially a Muggle-born as beautiful and talented as Tom – buying anything from a shop owned by a Muggle-born was almost as bad as admitting they were superior magic crafters.

Of course, he could always make things easier on himself and reveal his supposed Slytherin heritage. Malfoy, Black and Rosier would claim they had always suspected he was above the other Muggle-borns. They’d be bowing in the streets as he walked by.

Honestly, Tom enjoyed the challenge more this way. And watching the despair in their eyes as they realised he was superior to them in every way was still very satisfying.

He opened his shop three months after arriving back in Britain, a little place found on the corner of Knockturn and Diagon Alley.

It was an instant success.

He was bored of it within a year.

* * *

It was a huge scandal when it happened, a tragedy. The papers could talk of nothing else for so long that even Tom couldn’t ignore it. Everyone knew the Potters, the brilliant upcoming Auror James and his Mudblood wife. An ideal family.

Destroyed now.

Killed in Muggle London, shot in the head by a street mugger. Potter’s best friend Black going mad and attacking the Muggles nearby, causing a small explosion. Thirteen Muggles dead. Peter Pettigrew in a coma. Little orphaned Harry found by a Muggle policeman, placed with his Muggle relatives. Severus Snape’s rejected bid for custody.

It was all anyone could talk about for weeks. Obviously this was more proof that Muggles were monsters, killing for no reason. And Snape had always been very, _very_ close to Lily hadn’t he?

The gossip was almost nauseating. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and, of course, it wouldn’t be the last, but for some reason, it stood out. Was different enough to wake him from the malaise he’d found himself in. Made him think again. Had it seriously been six years since something interesting happened? He really needed to go abroad again; to China perhaps. He had fond memories of China.

Tom realised he must have been an optimistic child. For even after all that time at the orphanage, he’d still hoped. For a better life. For a companion, a friend. For a greater purpose in life than simply escaping his roots. When he had first witnessed Dumbledore using magic, had first entered Diagon Alley, had first seen the glow of Hogwarts, he had never imagined that the world of magic could be so petty. So rotten. Dull. Moribund. Barren. Stagnant.

Creativity and inventiveness were frowned upon in this world where near anything was possible. Laws from centuries ago were still enforced despite new contradictory laws and evidence. The entire Ministry was a fortress of corruption, politicians warring against each other, bribing and blackmailing the lower classes in some eternal bid for power, destroying entire families in the process. Never moving forwards, never improving. Simply a different name enforcing the same laws.

Tom watched the dance, effortlessly following the promotion that lead to the election of the next minister, the rumour that toppled him. It was all so… easy. He was certain that he could dance too, right to the top, be Minister in a year, despite being Muggle-born. But even with the leverage he possessed, even if he could move past the handicap that was his blood status, what would be the point of ruling this decayed world? Better to uproot it all and start again.

A revolution. A war. Chaos. Anarchy.

Just something, to push this world into movement again! Maybe he could start a rebellion. There was definitely enough unrest on the Mudblood side, and the pure-bloods were complacent enough to allow a lot of progress to be made, before they worked out how it would threaten their indulgent lifestyles. Actually dealing with the self-righteous twats would be tedious beyond belief, but it was an idea. Perhaps he could work through a cat’s paw.

His smile was genuine as he looked up to the next customer.

Yes, some anarchy sounded good.

* * *

The boy seemed completely alone.

Tom sat at one of the outdoor tables at Fortescues, an empty bowl in front of him. Not far away, darting through the crowd was the boy.

He was small, light on his feet, and he passed through the crowd almost completely unnoticed, even as he looked around in well-hidden wonder. So a Mudblood, probably. One who’d gotten away from his family.

Tom felt a brief flash of pity for the boy. Being a Mudblood had only gotten more difficult since his own time at Hogwarts. The Wizengamot was a bunch of blood purist dastards. Just last year, a law had passed stating that no Mudblood may work in the Ministry in any role of authority above secretarial work. And not long before, another had passed after a long fight against Dumbledore; this law stating that Mudblood and pure-blood children should be segregated while learning at Hogwarts, apparently so as not to leave the pure-bloods unchallenged or the Mudbloods out of their depth.

Of course, it resulted in a series of terrorist attacks. Tom’s little rebel movement had caught on. Unfortunately, it had been years since that had been interesting to play with. The main problem was that he couldn’t really do anything with them. Sure, if he pointed them in the right direction, they could seriously disrupt the workings of the magical world. Perhaps even enough to overthrow the Wizengamot, but what then? None of the rebels were really suited to leadership on this scale, and unless they were planning on killing or subjugating all of the pure-blood families, they were going to have to contend with a little traditional thinking. Their new leader would need to bring balance and order, not simply flip the odds in the favour of Muggle-borns.

The laws about segregating Hogwarts by blood and limiting ministry positions weren’t the worst, though both were very bad. It was still only rumours, but Tom had heard that a new bill was being considered, one that stated that any Mudblood wanting to leave the Wizarding World and take up with Muggles would not only be obliviated, but have their magic bound too, before being thrust out into Muggle London in exile. Vicious rumours, but from the latest policies being passed, he was inclined to believe them. It seemed like everything had been building to this particular future, one where Muggleborns were regarded as only slightly better than house elves.

Tom sighed.

He wasn’t sure what to think about it all. With the secrets he held and the influence he kept, none of these laws would directly affect him in a negative fashion. He felt as though he should care more. The sector of people being persecuted was the one he belonged to, officially. He should care, and want to help defend them, but he just… didn’t. He felt no affinity for them any more than he did for the pure-blooded morons who had rejected him back at Hogwarts. Which meant, any further interference on his part would be out of the goodness of his heart. Not the most reliable of things.

Honestly, he found it all rather tedious. Blood politics was an old debate, one with a clear right answer, that being that all magic should be celebrated. It was a bore to discuss again and again, and it wasn’t Tom’s problem if most wizards could never see the logic of his arguments or research. He didn’t particularly feel like wasting his time debating them. It just wasn’t that exciting a field to study anymore.

A clever enemy might be fun to debate. Someone able to back up their arguments with more than tradition and bigotry. Unfortunately, he was rather low on potential opponents. The current Minister could accurately be described as a blunt instrument as far as mental acuity went, and he was still one of the most intelligent among the ruling class. Honestly, what was the point of inciting a loose network of rebels to come together and overthrow the government if there was no one to fight back? He’d win within a week, and then what would he do to entertain himself? Run the country?

Standing, he moved to leave the café, making his way home, when he caught sight of the boy again.

This time he was carrying books, very obviously secondhand copies of the current Hogwarts curriculum. The pile seemed precarious, and too much for a young child to be carrying alone. It would definitely impede his earlier effortless dodging and weaving. In fact, even now-

With a smack, he was sent flying, books tumbling, as two redhead boys ran through the crowd. Not far behind was the rest of a whole tribe he quickly recognised as the Weasleys, a pure-blooded family with quite good standing. Most of them seemed to take no notice of the boy, not even the ones who ran into him. Only the smallest child, a little girl, even turned to look, and she quickly lost interest, instead watching as the Weasley matriarch verbally berated the rest for something or another. Tom looked back at the boy and felt another stirring of pity.

He seemed frustrated, glowering at the rude family, even at he picked up his books, dusting them off. All except the last one, which had happened to fall into the only puddle nearby, and now was not only soaked but had several footprints on it. The boy swallowed, obviously distraught and trying desperately not to show it. Quietly he crept to the side of the street, blowing on the pages to dry them.

Tom gave a huff, shaking his head. It was nothing more than indulging an impulse, bored and finished with his snack but unwilling to return to his shop just yet. Tom made his way over.

“Alright, there?”

The boy gave a start, before staring up at him through a wild fringe, brilliant green eyes carefully blank.

“Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

“I saw what happened a minute ago.”

The boy winced, but still kept his expression blank. “Nothing happened, sir.”

Tom didn’t answer verbally, merely raising one eyebrow.

The boy winced again, and looked back at his ruined textbook. The ink had started to run. The tremor that passed through the boy’s shoulders didn’t need translating.

Tom sighed, holding out one hand. “I can dry it.”

The boy froze. The look he gave a second later was more distrustful than hopeful. Tom didn’t really blame him. He remembered being that way when he’d first entered the wizarding world.

He felt exhausted when he thought of how little things had improved. The world was in a bad state when Tom Riddle – professional nihilist and master extortionist – was the one promoting moral integrity and ethics.

The boy stared. Tom stared back, hand still out. He had sincerely meant the offer to dry the book. Cautiously the boy held up the book to Tom, who cradled the sodden mess for a second. Giving a flick of his wand, the water streamed off the book like it was oilpaper, leaving the smears of ink. In the next moment, even the ink began to shift back to its original state.

The boy blinked.

“You fixed it.” His voice was soft as a whisper, ringing with cautious hope.

Tom nodded. “I waterproofed it too. Most books come with the charm, but no one thinks to renew it.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed at that, and Tom felt he was being scrutinised for any hint of mockery. Finding none, the boy seemed to relax again, minutely. “Thank you sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

A silence fell between them, the boy checking over his book for any smudges, and Tom gazing out to the street. There seemed to be a bit of a commotion up ahead, near Madam Malkin’s. A crowd was beginning to gather. Tom cast an eavesdropping charm of his own creation, linking it to record the incident on a piece of parchment in his pocket. He’d look over the information later, when he could find it in himself to be interested.

“Sir?” He turned back to the boy, who was regarding him with something like embarrassment. “Could you waterproof the rest, please?”

Tom smiled briefly.

“Of course.”

It was a simple task really, no more than a few seconds devoted to each book. Even so, the boy’s eyes grew wide and bright at the sight of magic being worked. Poor child, to be so starved of wonder that a mere waterproofing charm was amazing. Wizards may be boring and run by an oligarchy of pure-bloods, but at least they had magic.

“You’re new to magic, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

The boy froze again. He seemed to flounder for a second, before his gaze hardened into a glare that was rather impressive coming from an eleven-year-old.

“They knew. They never told me, but they knew. About magic and everything.”

Tom blinked at the venom the boy got behind those words. This glare wasn’t for him, or even the wall the boy was now aiming it at. He chose not to comment. It wasn’t entirely unheard of for Mudbloods to turn up in families that already knew about magic, cousins to half-bloods or descendants from squibs. Most of them were supportive, helping to prepare their magical children for the world. Apparently that wasn’t always the case.

Looking again, the boy seemed rather small for eleven. Underfed and overworked, eyes dark with stress. Poor whelp probably thought his life was going to improve now he was out from his family’s thumb. Tom wasn’t quite sure what prompted him to speak.

“You know the world isn’t fair, or kind. The magical world is even less so.”

The boy’s eyes focused on him once more, cautious. They were an unusual green, vivid in a way that just wasn’t possible without magical blood.

“What do you mean?”

Tom gave a sigh, leaning back against the wall.

“If you can, try and make the Malfoy heir your friend. Or ally, if not that. He’ll be starting this year too.” He smiled grimly at the bewildered child. “This is the kind of unfair world where a Hogwarts friendship stays with you through life. And a grudge stays through generations. Good luck.”

The boy blinked, before giving a nod. He glanced back only once before disappearing into the crowd.

Tom wondered for a minute if the boy would ever get anywhere, could ever be so lucky, before dismissing the thought and turning home. It wasn’t his problem. Not really.

* * *

Of course, the return of the Potter heir to the wizarding world caused quite a stir. No one quite knew what to do, or how to act. Especially considering it hit the newsstands a year late.

Tom wasn’t really surprised. Who cared that a wizarding orphan had been raised in the Muggle world, next to the fact that he’d become the youngest Seeker in a century? People honestly disgusted him sometimes.

Again the gossip returned. Who was the real father? Didn’t his godfather murder some Muggles once? Why do magical folk bother mixing with inferior beings like Muggles?

The news reports had been going for about a week, though, before he happened to glance at a photo.

It was quite a good one, contrasting a family shot of the Potters with their baby son to a new one of the Slytherin Quidditch team. And standing in the centre beside the haughty Malfoy scion, not quite smirking, was a boy he recognised.

Tom smiled.

* * *

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

Tom blinked, and turned to the speaker. Who happened to be a half-blood heir of an ancient bloodline, and therefore above him in the Ministry’s reckoning. And also a customer.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Said heir frowned, looked around the aisles of books and cast a privacy charm. Tom found himself impressed with its complexity. The boy couldn’t be older than thirteen. Green eyes regarded him through wire frames.

“I tried to find you again, you know.”

“Did you, sir?”

Potter frowned again.

“You shouldn’t be calling me sir. If anything, it should be the other way around.”

“If you say so, sir.” Tom gave a polite smile, watching the other’s reaction. The boy was still frowning unhappily, but he didn’t press it.

“I wanted to thank you for your advice, sir.”

“Which advice would that be, sir?”

“Nevermind, sir.”

It was a few days later when Tom looked up to find the Potter boy was back.

“You know, I looked you up, sir.”

Tom blinked. This was new.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle. Headboy, top graduate, the most successful student Hogwarts has seen since Dumbledore attended. And you work in a shop.”

“Maybe I like retail work.”

Potter’s expression was perhaps the most eloquent display of disbelief he’d ever witnessed.

“I might believe you if I hadn’t read up about you, Mr Riddle. Retail work isn’t exactly known for being intellectually stimulating.”

Tom smiled, surprised to find it was genuine.

“Perhaps it may get a bit monotonous sometimes.”

The shop bell rang as another customer entered. The Potter boy dispelled the privacy charm efficiently, before stepping away. He left without a backwards glance.

During late August, the Potter boy visited again. This time, his shop was rather busy, so Potter spent his time browsing, examining all the trinkets available. Tom kept an eye on him as he explored, smiling pleasantly to his current customer and providing information to the next. After fifteen minutes, the shop suddenly emptied, everyone streaming out to head towards the Gilderoy Lockhart’s book signing, which was about to start over at Flourish and Blotts.

Tom sighed, moving to recline against the counter.

“If you don’t leave now, you’ll be late for the book signing. I hear Lockhart may even be taking photos.”

Across the room, Potter snorted, glancing over to him.

“Lockhart’s a fraud. I find I’m much more interested in what I can find here.” Potter went back to examining the displays, carefully reading over the descriptions pinned beside each item. Unseen, Tom gestured towards the door, activating a light illusion he used when he wanted the shop to look closed and empty. Potter seemed to notice, but he appeared unbothered.

“Why do you keep visiting me, Mr Potter?”

“You can call me Harry, if you like.”

“I prefer to call you Mr Potter.”

“Even if I prefer for you to call me Harry?”

“Even then.”

“Fine,” Potter sighed, moving to stand before him. “I keep visiting because I think you’re interesting. You’re smart, obviously, and talented, too. Everything in here looks handcrafted, and if I were to guess, I would say you are the one who crafted them, no matter which name is attached to the tabs.”

“You guess correctly.”

Potter appeared pleased, straightening up a little further. Tom smiled.

Potter came back again the next day, and the day after, wandering the shop again and examining everything with poorly concealed wonder. Both times he left before the store cleared out enough for them to talk in relative privacy, but Tom found himself pleased to see the boy around and doing well.

It was a day in late August, and the shop was quiet. Most of the customers wandering the alley were picking up supplies in preparation for a new year at Hogwarts, and only the bravest of patrons chose to roam the busy streets alongside the hectic families and screaming children.

Potter was in the shop, of course, browsing Tom’s selection of applied spellcraft texts. Tom paid him little mind, lounging behind the counter while furiously scribbling notes in a small book. He was restructuring his next paper, a small treatise on the regional variations of pyromancy, and how the cultural perceptions surrounding the use of fire altered the effectiveness of the spells. Potter slowly moved around the room, wandering closer until he stood across the counter from Tom.

“You were kind to me. When we met. No one else even noticed, but you did, and you were kind.”

Tom looked across to Potter. The boy was playing with one of the trinkets Tom had set up on the counter, a jewelled frog spelled to keep vegetable gardens free of slugs.

“When your book fell in the puddle.”

Potter nodded.

“Your advice helped, too. About Malfoy.”

Tom said nothing.

“Can you teach me how to make these little things? They’re cute.”

“Are you taking Ancient Runes and Arithmancy this year?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Ask me again once you know the basics, and I’ll walk you through it.”

Potter was clever enough. It would be interesting to see how he applied magic in a practical setting.

* * *

Yule was a very busy time for the shop. Many wizards searched his shelves for trinkets to give their family members, or books detailing interesting ways to apply magic that could be taken up as a hobby, such as using runes while baking, or how to transfigure small toys.

Tom preferred to avoid the rush, leaving the hectic work in the hands of his seasonal staff, Evelyn, Sinead and Kevin. They were each rather capable individuals, intelligent and adaptable enough that Tom didn't worry for his shop every time he had to leave them be. They were all Muggle-borns, of course. No pureblood would ever work in a shop run by a Muggle-born, and any Hogwarts graduate with enough magical blood to be counted among the half-bloods would be working a more meaningful job by now.  

Tom was fairly certain he could arrange for each of his workers to receive a better placement, during the spring. It was something he did every year, find better jobs for whichever Muggle-borns ended up working for him during the winter. It served multiple purposes: firstly, proving that he possessed the power to place even a Muggle-born in whatever job they desired; secondly, it ensured that he had a new contact, someone he knew to be intelligent, within each profession. And it never hurt to have another favour owed him.

This year would be straightforward enough. He could certainly find something to do with hippogriffs for Kevin, and a potions master willing to take on Evelyn. Sinead would be more difficult to place, given that she wanted to work as an Auror, but there was a favour he could call in with a senior Auror to give her a better chance.  

Yule was also a busy season for socialising. Every family with means was holding their own celebrations, all subtly trying to one-up each other. Tom was busy nearly every evening, but he respectfully declined all the invitations he received for engagements on Yule night itself.

The quiet was a welcome reprieve. He spent a great deal of the evening in meditation, a tradition he had taken up during his twenties. Yule was a good opportunity to resettle his magic, and work out any burrs or stresses that had accumulated during the year. Considering the idiots he had to socialise with several times a week, it was a necessary activity. It was also a good time to take stock of his progress during the year, and plan out the next.

Tom received the usual flood of holiday tidings and small gifts. Useless little things, for the most part, but there was the occasional book or other interesting thing.

A snowy owl caught his attention. She waited patiently as he dealt with the other owls, offering her leg as he neared to reveal a small package. Opening it, he found a small box of Honeyduke’s chocolates, an elegant quill, and a letter written in Enochian script.

Offering the owl a few treats and a bowl of water, he settled at his desk. Tom read through the letter with a smile, before examining the quill. It was a pretty thing, dark and sleek, with a green iridescence to it. He summoning a sheet of parchment, and began to write.

_‘Dear Mr Potter,_

_Thank you for both the quill and the chocolates. They are well appreciated. You said you charmed the quill yourself? You have a fine eye; this was very professionally done._

_I do like the Enochian script, but have you tried Sumerian? The Sumerians had a thriving magical community, and some of their temples still stand today. Well worth a visit if you ever have the opportunity._

_Hedwig is a rather beautiful owl, by the way. She’s obviously very intelligent. Be sure to treat her well._

_Sincerely, Tom Riddle.’_

He offered Hedwig the sealed letter, which she carefully accepted, before flying off into the night.


End file.
